


Racy

by Lenore



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Kink Bingo 2013, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Pubic Hair, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1792993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick flipped on the water, kicked off his underwear and—jolted to a stop, staring at himself in the mirror. He had racing stripes. Down below. For a moment, he honestly couldn't think how they'd gotten there. Had the awesomeness fairy visited him? </p><p>In which Patrick drunk dares Jonny, and Jonny rises to the challenge, and Patrick finds it a little hot. Okay, a lot hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Racy

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this last year during the playoffs for the "shaving/depilation" square of my Kink Bingo card. That's when it's set. I guess I should warn for dubiously consensual pube shaving?

Like so many of Patrick's misadventures, it all began with tequila. Well, technically it started with the Hawks playing awesome hockey and getting into the playoffs, which necessitated a trip to the 316 Club for a mullet with obligatory racing stripes and some post-haircut celebratory drinking. And _then_ there was tequila.

The point was, nothing would have happened without the tequila. Or Tazer's bitch face. That was also a contributing factor. 

"I look awesome," Patrick informed Jonny after the third disapproving lip curl cast in the direction of his mullet.

Jonny took a sip of his beer, with a long, considering look at Patrick. "You really don't."

"Don't be a hater."

Of course that was like telling Jonny not to be Jonny, and the hair hate continued. 

"Fine. I'm doing a shot every time you make that constipated face at me." 

That was how Patrick ended up drooling on himself by the end of the night, completely unable to tell up from down. He and tequila really needed to break up. Also, Jonny should get better taste in playoff haircuts.

"I don't know why I didn't just leave you there to choke to death on your own vomit," Jonny complained, more than once, as he hauled Patrick from the bar to the cab and from the cab up to Patrick's apartment.

"You love me or something," Patrick slurred out, grinning at Jonny, or at least he was pretty sure he was grinning. He couldn't really feel his face. 

"Or something," Jonny muttered, digging through Patrick's pockets for his keys. 

_Liar_ , Patrick would have said except the tequila was seriously screwing with his ability to form syllables. 

Jonny dragged him down the hall to his bedroom and straight into the bathroom. He flipped up the lid on the toilet and deposited Patrick on the floor beside it. "Stay here until you puke."

He said it in his bossy captain voice, the same one he used to tell Patrick to stop stick handling and pass him the damned puck already. That was all the motivation Patrick needed to gather his four functioning brain cells and fire back, "Oh yeah? Well, what if I don't have to—" The thought ended with some pathetic heaving into the toilet.

By the time Patrick finished puking, Jonny had returned from a scavenger hunt to the kitchen, bringing back two bottles of water. "Come on." He hoisted Patrick to his feet. "Brush your teeth. Drink one of these. I'm going to leave the other one on the nightstand." 

"Gotta piss," Patrick mumbled.

Jonny rolled his eyes. "Can you hold your own dick? Or do you need me to do that too?"

Patrick fumbled open his zipper. "I don't know why I like you."

"Maybe it's because I don't let you choke to death on your own vomit," Jonny said in his flattest, most sarcastic monotone. 

Patrick would have told him to fuck off, but now that he'd puked he felt marginally more human, and he did appreciate that Jonny wouldn't just ditch him in the gutter after tequila had its cruel way with him. Patrick couldn't say that about all of his so-called friends. 

Zipping back up after he'd pissed seemed like a waste of fine motor coordination he really didn't have to spare, especially when he was just going to chuck his jeans as soon as he finished up in the bathroom. So he let it hang. He brushed his teeth and threw water on his face and made the mistake of glancing at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. Well, not his mullet with its totally sick racing stripes. The only thing more awesome would be—on impulse Patrick reached for his razor.

"What the fuck." Jonny grabbed his wrist, gripping too hard. Patrick hissed through his teeth, and Jonny instantly let go. "Shit. Sorry. But what the fuck, Kaner?"

"Dude, I need to match. I've got awesome racing stripes up top. I need them down below."

Jonny stared at Patrick in the mirror, his mouth open but no actual words coming out.

"It's a thing that needs to happen." Patrick reached for the razor again, more determined.

Jonny stopped him again, more gently this time. "I really don't think you want to put something sharp near your junk when you're this wasted."

Patrick stopped to considered this. He took his junk very seriously. 

Jonny added, "Not to mention that it's a stupid fucking idea."

"Fuck you, it's awesome, and if you weren't a loser, you'd do it for me." 

Jonny made a face. "I'm not going to help you look even more stupid than you already do."

"You're just jealous of my awesomeness," Patrick shot back, and when that failed to motivate Jonny, he brought out the big guns. "I dare you."

Jonny glared, the muscle in his jaw twitching. So predictable. Patrick could get him to do just about anything as long as he made it into a challenge. 

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Jonny told him.

Patrick grinned into the mirror. 

Unfortunately the tequila wasn't finished screwing with him just yet, and he didn't have long to enjoy his moment of triumph before he started listing to one side, his knees threatening to give out, his eyes suddenly so heavy-lidded he had to struggle to keep them open. 

"Come on." Jonny looped an arm around his waist, dragged him to the bedroom, and dumped him onto his bed.

"Racing stripes," was the last thing Patrick said before he passed out. 

* * *

He woke up the next morning not sure if he was actually dead or if he just really, really wished that he were. The tiny strip of light let in where the blackout drapes didn't quite meet made him groan out loud and squeeze his eyes tightly shut. Fucking tequila. From now on, he and beer were in a totally monogamous relationship. 

Most of last night was lost in a post-booze haze, but he did have a vague memory of Jonny being in his apartment, glaring at him, and the even fuzzier sense that he might have said or done something stupid. No doubt Jonny would remind him in detail the next time they saw each other. 

Eventually Patrick gathered enough strength to lift his head from the pillow and noticed the bottle of water sitting on the nightstand. A post-it note stuck to the lid read: "Drink!" How Jonny managed to sound like a bossy motherfucker with a single written word Patrick had no idea. He tamped down his usual contrary response to Jonny ordering him around and tipped back the entire bottle. He'd probably need another dozen of these before he stopped feeling like being alive was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. 

The apartment sounded quiet, no muffled ESPN voices coming from the living room, no thuds of an underwear workout drifting out from the spare bedroom, so Jonny was probably long gone. Patrick dragged himself out of bed and padded down the hall to have a look. No Jonny. Patrick stalled in the kitchen, staring at his coffeemaker, trying to decide which he needed more: caffeine or shower. 

He took a whiff beneath one armpit, and shower it was. 

In the bathroom, he flipped on the water, kicked off his underwear and—jolted to a stop, staring at himself in the mirror. He had racing stripes. Down below. For a moment, he honestly couldn't think how they'd gotten there. Had the awesomeness fairy visited him? He couldn't imagine that he'd done it himself, not as wasted as he'd been. That would have ended in tears and a trip to the emergency room. He scrunched up his forehead and thought hard. A fuzzy picture started to come into focus, a memory of—

 _Jonny_.

The realization felt like being struck by lightning—if lightning gave you a hot, twisty feeling in the pit of your stomach and an instant boner. Patrick palmed himself reflexively, because when his dick called he answered. This was their relationship. He traced the racing stripes while he jerked it. They were even and straight, carefully done. Patrick could just picture Jonny's expression while he'd been working, his face all serious and focused and shit. It took three only pulls of Patrick's hand before he was coming all over the vanity. 

In retrospect, it probably would have been smarter, not to mention tidier, to save it for the shower, but sometimes an orgasm just couldn't wait. 

Patrick dragged himself beneath the hot spray and stalled there, eyes closed, water streaming over him. He soaped up and moved his hands over his body, and his fingers seemed to have a will of their own, finding the racing stripes, stroking over them. There shouldn't have been any way he could get it up again, not when he was still hungover as all fuck and had just come, like, two minutes ago. Twenty-four was young, but it wasn't _that_ young. 

He was totally getting hard anyway. 

"Fuck," he hissed through his teeth as he brought himself off again. 

He stumbled out of the shower, light-headed and weak in the knees, dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. Even now, two orgasms later, he was just as stupidly conscious of the racing stripes. His fingers curled with the urge to touch. 

"Get it the fuck out of your system," he told his reflection sternly. 

* * *

By the time he left for practice the next day, Patrick was sure that the racing stripe freakiness had, in fact, been put to rest. He felt confident—not to mention chafed. He hadn't jerked off that much since he first learned what his dick could do. In the shower that morning, he'd tested his reaction, playing with the racing stripes, and, okay, he couldn't say that it hadn't done anything for him, but it was just regular hot, not nuclear meltdown, come-until-you-black-out hot. 

Alert level for potential weirdness with Jonny: green. 

"Little man!" Sharpy boomed in his ear the moment he stepped into the locker room. 

Patrick's hangover headache had straggled into a second day, and it flared up at the excess volume. He gritted his teeth. "Fuck you so hard."

Sharpy shook his head sadly. "I expect more from you, Peeks. Lightweights give hockey players a bad name."

"Your face gives hockey players a bad name," Patrick shot back. 

He stripped out of his clothes and started pulling on his gear. It was all perfectly normal until he turned around and Jonny was standing right there, as if the concept of personal space was something he'd never heard of. "What the fuck?"

"Are you still hungover?" Jonny asked, with such a pissy expression that Patrick would have thought he'd hallucinated the racing stripes if he didn't have the evidence in his pants. His face turned hot at that thought, and what the fuck? Patrick had bypassed the whole adolescent self-consciousness phase and skipped straight to utter shamelessness. Now he was actually blushing. 

He turned on his heel, fled to the bathroom, and locked himself in a stall. _Stand the fuck down_ , he ordered his dick. _Because I'm not rubbing one out in the locker room_. His dick didn't pay much attention. This, too, was typical of their relationship.

At least he wasn't distracted during practice. There wasn't much time to think about sexy racing stripes when he was hustling his ass all over the ice and still had Jonny yelling at him, "What is that lame shit, Kaner?" 

Unfortunately, the break from his newfound obsession was only temporary and ended as soon as he headed back to the changing room. He stripped off his gear and Under Armour, and then that hot, twisty sensation settled into the pit of his stomach again. He was surrounded by his entire team, Jonny included, and the racing stripes were _right there_. Anyone could see them and ask how he'd gotten them. Jonny would probably smirk while Patrick turned red again and started to stutter. Why was that possibility kind of hot in a totally disturbing way?

Seabs nudged Patrick with his elbow. "Hey, we're going for a quick beer, you in?" 

"What, no, um—" He fled to the shower with Sharpy's voice floating after him, "Don't run away, little Peekaboo. The beer isn't going to hurt you."

Patrick turned the cold tap on full blast, clenched his teeth, and shivered under the icy spray until his dick settled down. It was only a temporary reprieve, he felt pretty sure, and he toweled off in a hurry, went back to his stall, and practically threw on his clothes.

He was halfway to the door when Seabs' disbelieving, "wait, so you're really not coming for a beer," caught up with him. When he turned back around, Sharpy was doing the eyebrow-raise of _what is up with our little Peekaboo?_ Fuck.

"I've got something I have to do." Patrick waved his hand in a way he hoped didn't suggest _go home and jerk it because manscaping gets me hot_. 

He turned back to the door, ready to make his getaway for real this time, and ran headlong into Jonny. Fuck, _fuck_. Jonny had that pinch between his eyes, the one he got when he thought Patrick was about to go off and do something stupid. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah, um," Patrick stammered out. 

Jonny's expression only went more puckered with concern, his gaze boring into Patrick as if he could glare the secrets right out of him. Suddenly the heat was creeping up Patrick's cheeks, and he felt just painfully aware of the situation in his pants and the fact that Jonny was the one responsible for it. 

"Gotta go!" 

He actually ran. 

* * *

Patrick didn't expect the weirdness to last. He'd never had much of an attention span for anything but hockey, not to mention that he had the playoffs to focus on. Any day now the hotness of the racing stripes would wear off. 

Yep. Any day now. 

* * *

The first round against the Wild went smoothly enough, even if the racing stripes were still just as distracting as they'd ever been, but the second round— _Fucking Redwings_ was going to be the running monologue cranking away in Patrick's head the entire series, he could tell already. The second game had been a shit show of epic proportions, at their own house in front of their own fans no less, and now they were headed to Detroit, the atmosphere on the flight alternately jittery and serious, even if technically there was no need to worry, not yet anyway. 

At the hotel, they mechanically filed off the bus and into the lobby, no one interested in much of anything beyond getting settled in their rooms and fast-forwarding the hours until they could get back out on the ice and set this shit right. The upside, if you could call it that, was that Patrick had not rubbed one out to sexy racing-stripe-related thoughts since the _fucking Redwings_ loop had started up in his head. Nothing killed a boner quite like visions of Zetterberg. 

"You want to watch some TV?" Jonny offered in the elevator ride up to their floor.

Patrick shook his head. "I'm just going to crash for a while."

Jonny's mouth went tight at the corners, mulish and so very Jonny, as if he were two seconds away from ticking off a list of reasons why Patrick needed to come with him right now and watch at least four episodes of _Backwoods Angler_ , for hockey and Chicago and the spirit of teamwork. 

"I'll see you at dinner," Patrick said firmly. The fact that he could finally think about something besides _racing stripes, fuck_ when he looked at Jonny didn't mean he was going to push his luck by spending time alone with the guy. 

He could feel Jonny glowering at his back, a laser-hot pinpoint between his shoulder blades, as he headed down the hall to his room. Whatever. Patrick's newfound non-freaky-ness about his racing stripes still felt fragile, and Jonny would just have to deal with not getting his way for once. 

Patrick dumped his bag on the floor of his room and pitched backward onto the bed, bouncing on the aggressively firm mattress. He stared up at the ceiling and tried not to think about Jonny or racing stripes or anything at all. Complete empty headedness. It was a gift. 

Eventually he drifted off, and when he woke up it was time to head down to team dinner. He took the elevator to the lobby, feeling calm and racing-stripe-thought-free, perfectly in control. 

Jonny greeted him with suspiciously narrowed eyes, apparently concerned that there was something wrong with Patrick because he hadn't wanted to invest hours of his life that he'd never get back again watching reruns of bass fishing. He answered Jonny's watchful gaze with a smile, lazy and deep-dimpled, _nothing to worry about here, baby_ , and Jonny visibly relaxed. At dinner, he slung his arm across the back of Patrick's chair and chirped him about his playoff beard, or lack thereof as Jonny would have it, and made disapproving faces at the extra-large piece of chocolate cake that Patrick finished with loud scrapes of his fork. 

Perfectly normal. 

"Beer?" Shawsy suggested afterward, jerking his head in the direction of the bar. 

It was still early, and Patrick could use a beer, not to mention that being left alone with his racing stripes was probably still something he should avoid as much as possible. He was just about to say _count me in_ when Jonny beat him to it, "Peeks is in."

Patrick rolled his eyes and turned to remind Jonny, _not the boss of me_ , because that could never be said too much. The words got knocked right out of his head by the way Jonny was staring at him, with all the freakish intensity he was capable of, as if Patrick were the only thing he could see. He'd probably looked exactly like that when he'd picked up the razor and—Patrick was instantly, _painfully_ aware of the racing stripes. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. 

Jonny kept his freaky-intense gaze fixed on Patrick's face, and he moved even closer, his body a line of warmth along Patrick's side. "Kaner. Come on."

Patrick's oh-so unhelpful imagination took that and ran with it, offering up a different picture to go with the sound track: Patrick naked and spread out on the hotel sheets, Jonny fully dressed, kneeling between Patrick's bare thighs, intently focused on Patrick's dick, teasing and playing with the racing stripes while urging, _Kaner, come on_. Patrick went too hot all over, unbearably conscious of his skin beneath his clothes, and he totally panicked. 

"Actually, I'm pretty tired," he stammered out, backing away a few skittish steps.

"What?" Jonny frowned. "No." He reached for Patrick's arm. 

The porn-reel Jonny in Patrick's head was still touching him, and now actual Jonny was touching him, and that was just a perfect storm of _fuck, racing stripes_. Patrick jerked away sharply. 

Jonny frowned even harder, but he let go of Patrick's arm. 

"I'm going to crash," Patrick said and darted into the elevator, jabbing the button for his floor, before anyone could stop him. 

Upstairs, he barely got the door closed before he was scrabbling at his belt and pushing his pants down. He'd taken to carrying lube everywhere, and he slicked up, curled his hand around his dick, and touched the stripes. It was so hot. He was so fucked up. 

A sharp knock at the door startled the shit out of him, but didn't deter his dick in the slightest. 

"Kaner," Jonny called out. "I know you're in there. Let me in."

Patrick's dick jerked in his hand. Fuck. "I'm tired, Jonny," he managed to choke out.

He back-and-forthed for a moment whether it was okay to touch himself while he was talking to Jonny, but his dick had its demands, and the racing stripes—that was Jonny's handiwork. He barely stifled a moan as he started stroking himself again. 

"We need to talk about this," Jonny insisted, like the stubborn asshole he was. 

Patrick bit his lip to keep from whimpering, because apparently Jonny being a stubborn asshole kind of did it for him. "Later."

There was a pause. "Yeah, okay."

Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and managed to hold off coming until Jonny had walked away. And people said he had no self-restraint. 

* * *

By the time they headed back to Chicago, they were down three games, on the brink of elimination, and Patrick's stubborn racing-stripe kink was the least of his problems. Jonny spent the flight staring holes of fire in the air, either finding new ways to blame himself for the losses or plotting where to hide Zetterberg's body. Patrick shifted restlessly in his seat, trying to decide if there was any part of him that didn't hurt. Nope, there really wasn't. All he could think about was going home, sleeping in his own bed and spending some quality brooding time later on. 

The next morning, he blinked awake early, started to scramble up in a rush of _fuck, I'm going to be late_ before he remembered that Q had given them a rest day, and he sagged back against the mattress in relief. When he woke up again, it wasn't morning anymore, and he reluctantly dragged himself out of bed, sore and in desperate need of coffee. He showered without even a flicker of interest in the racing stripes. Nothing was sexy when he felt this beaten up and crappy.

His destination for the day was the sofa, and he deposited himself there after breakfast, curled up around his third cup of coffee and reading _Twilight_ for comfort. When the doorbell rang, he froze. Only one person could get past the front desk unannounced, because apparently everyone in Chicago read those articles the media loved to churn out about Patrick and Jonny's epic bromance, including Patrick's doorman. 

"It's later," Jonny announced when Patrick opened the door, pushing past him.

What were the chances that if Patrick stayed blank-faced and clueless maybe Jonny would just give up and leave? 

Jonny scowled. "Don't fucking pretend with me, Kaner. We're talking this out." He marched off toward the living room.

Zero percent chance of that apparently. Fuck. 

Patrick took his time making the return trip to the sofa, trying to brace himself for the inquisition that was sure to follow. The problem was, Patrick was a blurter, and Jonny could give the CIA a run for its money when he went into serious interrogation mode. _It's not because I get off on the racing stripes, it's not because I get off on the racing stripes_ , Patrick schooled himself, a little desperately.

Jonny was already pacing, wearing a path in the carpet, which couldn't possibly be a good sign. Maybe if Patrick apologized, he could head off whatever Jonny had come to say and send him on his way. He drew in a breath, but Jonny beat him to it. "I'm sorry."

Patrick frowned. "Wait, what?"

Jonny pulled a note out of his pocket and unfolded it because of course he'd prepared a speech in advance. 

"You really don't have to—" 

Jonny cut him off with an impatient look. "Will you just listen?" He cleared his throat and started to read in a super awkward monotone. "This is the playoffs, and we need to be on the same page, not just on the ice. I know I crossed a line, and it was stupid. I guess I thought it would be funny or something, a prank. I thought you'd laugh, come to the locker room and show it off to everybody. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to mess us up."

Patrick's forehead scrunched up in bewilderment as he listened because what the hell— _oh, oh_. Patrick's eyes went wide. Jonny thought he'd non-conned Patrick with his own razor. 

"No—"

Jonny glared reproachfully. "I fucked up, Patrick, but do you honestly think I'd mess us up on purpose?"

"You didn't mess anything up!" Patrick's voice rose in exasperation. 

"You can't even look at me!" Jonny paced more agitatedly. "You've been avoiding me, and that means you've been avoiding the team, and they don't deserve that. You can't—"

Patrick lost the battle with blurting. "I get off on it!" 

Jonny stopped in his tracks, his head whipping around. 

"Um," Patrick added, very articulately. 

"The racing stripes do it for you," Jonny said, slowly, as if English made no sense to him anymore.

"I think it's more how I got them." While he was admitting things, Patrick figured he might as well go all in. 

Jonny studied him for a long moment. "Do you just want me to get you off? Or can I kiss you?" 

Now it was Patrick's turn to puzzle over one-syllable words. "What?"

"If you just want to get off, lose the pants. Otherwise I'm going to kiss you." Jonny moved in closer. "I really want to kiss you. So you should tell me if you want me to stop."

Patrick shook his head. "No, no, I don't want you to—" 

Jonny instantly froze, as if any sudden movement might spook Patrick. 

"I don't want you to _stop_ ," Patrick clarified.

For a moment Jonny just blinked stupidly, as if that wasn't at all what he'd expected Patrick to say, but he got with the program quickly enough, pulling Patrick close, settling his hands possessively at Patrick's waist, and bossily taking charge of Patrick's mouth with his tongue. Their hips slotted together, and Patrick could feel Jonny getting hard, his dick rubbing against the racing stripes through the layers of their clothes. That was—Patrick moaned out loud and tipped his head back. 

Jonny caught the hint and pushed his mouth against Patrick's throat, making him shiver with the sharp edge of teeth. "You couldn't have just told me?" 

Because they were so good at talking about personal shit. Patrick could just picture how that train wreck of a conversation would have gone. "Yeah. I really couldn't."

Jonny pulled back, temporarily abandoning his bid to give Patrick the most embarrassing hickey in Blackhawks locker room history. His expression was mulish, as if he might actually try to argue that they were capable of reasonable-adult communication, but finally he settled for manhandling Patrick down the hall, out of his clothes, and onto the bed. A much better plan, in Patrick's opinion.

He leaned back on his elbows, grinning up at Jonny with his best sleazy grin, spreading his legs, showing off. Jonny loomed at the side of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt with completely uncalled-for deliberation, staring at Patrick with dark, crazy eyes. 

"Are you coming down here or what?" Patrick ran a hand across his chest, over his belly, glancing meaningfully down at the racing stripes.

"Fuck, Kaner." Jonny ditched the rest of his clothes like a fire had been lit under him and stretched out over Patrick, rubbing against him and kissing with a predictable amount of aggressive tongue. Fucking awesome. 

"I got off on it," Jonny said, a confession in hot breath against Patrick's ear. "Afterward. I kept thinking about—"

Patrick shuddered all over. The thought of Jonny being as obsessed as he was—fuck, that was—

"Kaner," Jonny said, voice raw with desperation, as if he was asking—as if he thought he needed permission. 

"Yeah. Fuck."

Jonny pressed his hand flat against Patrick's chest, thumbed absently at a nipple before dragging his palm down Patrick's belly, his fingers curling with eagerness. Patrick drew in a shaky breath as Jonny drew a forefinger slowly along one stripe. He was staring, his expression set with concentration, exactly the way he'd looked in Patrick's fantasies, and that—that—

He grabbed Jonny's wrist. "Shit's gonna be over really fast if you keep doing that." 

Jonny smirked, giving the racing stripe another stroke. "What makes you think shit's not going to be over really fast anyway?"

That hot, twisty thing started up in Patrick's stomach again. Was it weird that Jonny chirping him about his endurance turned him on? Patrick decided to think about that later. Right now he needed to focus on the way Jonny was moving down the bed, looking intent and like he was thinking filthy-dirty thoughts, bending his head as if he were going to—

"Fuck," Patrick gasped out when Jonny's mouth closed around his dick.

Patrick set his jaw, staring up at the ceiling, and tried not to come at the first wet-hot pull of Jonny's mouth. It only got harder as Jonny took Patrick's dick deeper, brought his hand up to play with Patrick's balls and, _fuck_ , Jonny was really good at giving head for a straight—oh, _oh_. Patrick felt dazed by realization. The thought of Jonny being hot for dudes, getting down on his knees and—Patrick sucked in a shaky breath. 

His face was sweaty, his chest flushed, and he had that sweet ache low in his belly that meant, yeah, this really wasn't going to last much longer. When Jonny dragged his palm up Patrick's thigh, fingers moving with intent, fitting themselves to the racing stripes and tracing the lines with more than a hint of ownership—well, there really was only one thing to do about that. He let loose a string of profanity and came in Jonny's mouth. 

Afterward Patrick needed a moment to relearn complicated stuff like how to breathe. When his synapses started firing again, it occurred to him that, oops, probably not the best bj etiquette to come in your best friend's mouth without so much as a _please_. 

Jonny didn't look pissed, though. Actually, he appeared quite pleased with his handiwork, staring at Patrick's spent dick like a possessive freak, his hand on his own cock, working it with a tight grip. 

"Let me—" Patrick said weakly, trying to rouse the energy to move.

Jonny ignored him, fucking his fist harder, still staring. Hey, if he got off on looking—Patrick grinned, dragged his fingers over his pubes, and played with the racing stripes. "Every time I looked at you, I thought about you giving me these. I haven't jerked it that much since I was thirteen."

"Fuck," Jonny bit out, the muscle in his jaw jumping. He knocked Patrick's hand out of the way, got his fingers on the racing stripes, and stroked them like he owned them. 

Patrick moaned, and his dick made a desperate, if unsuccessful, bid to get hard again. When he mentioned that to Jonny—because always and forever a blurter—Jonny came all over him. 

It was a little surprising that Jonny wanted to cuddle afterward, but no shock at all that he had definite ideas about how it should be done, shifting Patrick around until he had him arranged just the way he wanted him. Whatever. Patrick was totally secure enough to be the little spoon.

"You're going to need them trimmed soon," Jonny said, his hand splayed low across Patrick's belly, fingers absently rubbing.

"You're going to need to get me off again if you don't stop that," Patrick answered back. 

"Mm," Jonny murmured and didn't stop touching him. 

Patrick suspected there was going to be a lot more chafing in his future. He was totally okay with that.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Racy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828996) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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